


The Hollow: Part II Thinking of You

by SaltyWords (agent4hire22)



Series: Hell is Empty [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6819286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent4hire22/pseuds/SaltyWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story picks up directly after the fallout of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6422494">part I.</a> Cas is dying and Dean's arrested in a misunderstanding that cannot be explained away. With Lucifer dead and Cas hanging on by a string, Dean's desperate to get to his friend's side. Unfortunately there's no rest for the weary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow: Part II Thinking of You

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part II of a II part story
> 
>  
> 
> [Part I can be found here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6422494)
> 
>  
> 
> Lying all alone and restless  
> unable to lose this image  
> sleepless, unable to focus on  
> anything but your surrender
> 
> Tugging a rhythm to the vision that's in my head  
> Tugging a beat to the sight of you lying  
> So delighted with a new understanding  
> Something about a little evil that makes that  
> Unmistakable noise I was hearing  
> Unmistakable sound that I know so well  
> Spent and sighing with a look in your eye  
> Spent and sighing with a look on your face like
> 
> Sweet revelation sweet surrender...
> 
> "Thinking of You" ~A Perfect Circle

The Hollow: Part II

Thinking of You

  
  


To say Dean had dealt with a few emergencies in his time would be the understatement of the millennium. He couldn’t scoff that thought away even if he wanted to. Elbow deep in someone else’s blood was nine tenths of his entire life; braised in beer filling the gap. He’d never really gotten used to it. It always sent his heart wobbling and his nerves on edge. 

But, there was something so red hot in the way he felt when the trouble was family. It wasn’t just panic or fear or adrenaline that found him. It was a bullet freeze-framed in front of a windowpane. It felt like if time unstuck, he was going to watch the whole thing shatter. Glass would rain down and cut him, scar him. Stain him in a kind of color that never came off. 

He got that feeling again as he stared down at Cas.

The blood. 

Those blue eyes rolling back.

_I’m losing him. I’m fucking losing him._

The hilt sticking out of Cas’ chest was a bullet kissing glass. If Dean breathed--if he even thought about breathing--his whole fucking world would shatter and he’d spend the rest of his life trying to pick the pieces up. Every single one of ‘em would cut his fingers bloody, and it didn’t take genius to know none of them would ever fit together again. 

The paramedics never even registered. Neither did the red and blue lights. 

They were yelling something. They were hauling Dean off. He was face first in the hood of a police cruiser before the world clicked on again. Caught back up like a skipped record.

“No! Wait! I didn’t do it! I tried to stop it! Cas! Don’t you fucking die on me!” he screamed.

The paramedics crowded-- _crows on a corpse_ \--as the cops dragged him away. 

  
  


But, now the ice pack was warm, and that was fine because he was pretty fucking full-body numb anyway.

Dean set it down in time to see a young officer’s eyes scurry away. She was supposed to be booking, but he figured she hadn’t paid much attention to her computer screen since he’d been tossed into holding. Instead, they’d been playing a good bit of eye tango. Maybe because they both knew he should’ve gotten his own trip to the ER, or really, probably because that thick file sitting at the corner of her desk had his name on it.

Not an alias. His actual fucking name: _Winchester, Dean 1979-01-29._

_Stupid._ _So stupid._

That thing was going to haunt him. A veritable collection of law enforcements misconceptions. _Awesome._

“You want it back?” he asked holding the icepack out.

“Are you feeling better?” She leaned in her chair and wrung her fingers. 

_I’m fucking great_. He swallowed the cynicism. She didn’t have anything to do with it, he wasn’t going to take it out on her. “Yeah my whole--” he circled hands around his beat head. “I’m good. Thank you for it, Officer…” 

“Remy.”

“Officer Remy,” he repeated. “It helped, a lot. I’m good as new again.”

“I’d believe that if your skull wasn’t cracked.”

He considered her carefully, then pulled off the cement bench. The room speckled black. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t stand.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He blinked instead. “But, I gotta ask you something. Have you-- Do you know if the guy I was with… if he’s okay?”

“I can’t talk to you about that.”

“I didn’t hurt him. I tried to stop it. Please. I just… I need to know. He’s important to me. I’ve spent so long just tryin’ ta get him back and… you understand, I can’t lose him now. Please?”

She looked away, fidgeted at the edge of her desk, sighed. “I haven’t heard.”

“Can you look it up?”

“Well, I--”

“\--No.” Suddenly the deputy came around the corner and slapped a hand down on his file. “ _Self-inflicted_ , my ass,” he spat parking an ass cheek on the edge of the desk. “The day I see someone shove a twelve inch blade halfway through their own chest is the day I start spitting rainbows.”

Remy sank back into her monitor and started typing. Dean’d lost her. 

“Yeah, I got that impression,” Dean spurned, turning. “You’d be puking rainbows if you’d seen half the shit I have.” 

“That’s just the thing, isn’t it?” The deputy eyed him and hooked thumbs in his belt. “I’d ‘a sworn up and down this whole mess was self defense, til I pulled the prints off that freaky knife of yours. I mean, he clearly beat the hell outta you. There’s no doubt it’s your blade that ran him through; more a’ your prints on it than his. But when I ran ‘em through AFIS, it turns out you’ve got a rap sheet longer ‘n my left arm, and he’s been on the Missing Persons list since 2008. You wanna explain that to me?”

_Well, fuck. They think Cas is Jimmy._ Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. Now I don’t know what kinda shit you’re running, or who you’re working for but--”

“Okay, wait--”

“Naw, you’re the one who gets to wait now.”

“Can you just tell me if he’s--if _Jimmy’s--_ still alive?”

The deputy’s heavy eyebrow popped. “I got some bad news for you--” Amusement curled his tone, and it squeezed Dean’s eyes shut. It congealed in Dean’s stomach as his hands balled into the front of his shirt. The cotton was still heavy with blood, it cracked with the wring of his fingers. “--You got bigger problems now. Turns out Uncle Sam’s come to collect.”

“Wha--” Dean stilled and his eyes popped open. 

Sam hung in the hallway, behind the deputy, tucked just behind that obnoxious, pompous smile. He was all suited up, hair slicked back and two-day stubble trimmed neat but not shaven clean. He was nervous, and he told it to Dean by the way his temples danced.

“Mr. Winchester. I’m sure you remember me,” he said smoothly. His eye caught up in the bruises on Dean’s face. He was anxious for answers. He needed more than Dean had given him during intake:

_I’m in county_. _Cas is going to Saint Elizabeth’s. Get there for him. Like, yesterday quick._

_Lucifer?_

_No, Sammy. Lucifer’s dead._

Dean froze. “Agent--” Sam tapped a finger-- “Ringo. Long time no see.” _Shit. What’re you doing here?_

Fact was, there were just as many pictures of Sam in that folder as there were of Dean. The two of them were just short of infamous for their teamwork, and Sam’d shirked all protocol when he walked through those double doors. That meant all bets were off, and there was pretty much only one reason he’d do it. 

_Code black: Dead and/or dying reroutes the plan._

Anxiety fluttered through his chest and pulled nausea through his gut. “How ‘bout it, Agent?” he asked carefully. Dreadfully. Fucking stomach-sick. “How’s that family of yours?”

Sam looked him through, and the beat he took turned Dean’s world gray. “Some days are better than others,” he said. “But maybe this’ll turn things around for me.” _He doesn’t need me, Dean. He needs you._

Dean shut his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or devastated, either way, he had to lock his knees cuz the world went wobbly. 

Maybe Sam saw it. Maybe it was because Dean’s color washed out, or he looked as sick as he felt, but Sam turned quick and ripped the file out from under Remy’s hand. “I’m on the clock with this one, Deputy. Quit sitting on your ass and get this cell open. This man is property of the US Government now, and I’m due to have him air bound to DC in forty-five.”

“That’s our file.” Remy pecked for it, then leered at him like she was having deja vu.

Sam turned, looked down his nose. The charm was dead and buried. “You’ll get it back when I’m done,” he said mealy. He dug a little white business card out from his breast pocket and drew it out to her like a long drag off a cigarette. It looked new, but it was at least five years defunct. There wasn’t anyone there to answer that number anymore. There hadn’t been for a very long time. Bobby was gone. Dean fought the sound of his own heart in his ears, but Sam didn’t throw it. He always had the better poker face. “You got a problem with that, call my AD.” 

The moment lingered. Eyes and tension. 

“I swear to God--” The deputy threw up his hands. “Unlock twelve so I can go home. I ain’t missing NCIS for this.”

\----

“You’ve already been there four hours today. It’s like you’re asking for a security detail to catch on,” Sam grumbled from the receiver. Dean cracked a sunflower seed and tossed the empty shell into a disposable Dixie cup. 

“Night nurses don’t care. Besides, he does better when someone’s sitting with him.” His voice was obscenely loud in the quiet hospital room. Only the heart rate monitor beeping and the soft wheeze of oxygen contaminated the silence. 

“Yeah, I get it. But, Dean, they only don’t care so long as they don’t find out you were the guy arrested for the stabbing in the first place.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Who’s gonna tell em? You gonna tell em?” He looked up at Cas, oxygen mask covering the bottom half of his face. Fluffed pillows framing his shock of disheveled, dark hair. “Cas? You?” Sam gave him a gracious chuckle.

“Just so you realize cops go through there on the regular.” 

Dean listened to a wood slat chair creak on the other end. _Take a load off, Sammy. Ya done good._ He flicked a shell off the tip of his finger. “Yeah, you’re right. I keep forgetting I’m totally new to this. Never done it before. Never been in a hospital…  Never run from the police… I’m just an innocent little--”

“Whatever. Just keep me updated.”

“He’s doing good,” Dean said quietly, then, “hey, Sam? Thanks for risking your ass to get me out.” 

“Yeah. Just bring him back with you.”

They didn’t need to say it. They both knew they were damn close to getting run out of Kansas altogether, pulling something like they had with local PD was like pissing in your own pool. One grocery store sighting, and it’d be _goodbye bunker_. But, Sam had done it anyway--gone against his better judgment-- for Dean. 

_For this._ Dean slipped a finger down Cas’ arm, touched his hand. “I will,” he said and it caught in his throat. 

“Good. But when you do… we gotta talk about Amara. Cuz she’s not going away.”

“Yeah,” _not now,_ “ later.” 

They hung up and the machinery whirred. 

The room was dark. It smelled like Clorox and iodine. Plastic and death. The air was heavy with iron and the dark, night corners howled whispers of nightmares thousands of people who’d shared the room before Cas might have had. 

But this wasn’t Cas’ nightmare, it was Dean’s.

He huffed the thought away and kicked another foot up onto the edge of the bed. Tipped the visitor’s chair onto the back two legs. The cushion was worn down, the 90s flower print threadbare now, but better than a metal foldout. _Just barely_ , he decided wincing as a pinched nerve flared in his lower back.

He sighed and pulled a newspaper from the tray table. A little night reading he’d decided he needed when he swiped it from another room. “Okay, Cas. Pick a category. We got, politics, comics, economics--nope. Not reading that. Boring-- or, classifieds. I ain’t reading about the puppies for sale either. Sam doesn’t get one, and you don’t get one.” He glanced Cas’ way. “Unless you want one… then _maybe._ But it’s gotta be big enough to take down a vamp. No purse dogs.” 

The heart rate monitor beeped, keeping pace steady at 65. 

“Politics it is!” He folded the paper back and cleared his throat. “‘ _Trump Wins Indiana Primary’ --_ wha, really? What the hell’s with all these Trump wins? I’m starting to think maybe we’ve got another Leviathan problem on our hands. Or, maybe it’s just a good ol’ fashioned demon deal. I know one thing for sure, it ain’t natural. Hey, think maybe we can put a call into Crowley, see if he’d be willing to collect early for a favor? I mean, he probably owes you a big one now, if he overlooks the whole how Lucifer got out to—never mind. You know, come to think of it, I doubt the King of Hell wants the King of Bad Toupees downstairs either. Whaddaya think? Purgatory portal?”

“It’s an option,” Cas muttered from behind the oxygen mask and Dean jumped, nearly tipped his chair as he scrambled to his feet. 

Cas looked up at him, eyes tired but clear. The bags under them complemented by the rosy flush of his cheeks. He took another heavy breath, and fumbled the mask from his face. “But, not very feasible.” His voice was a weak, airy sputter. Dry and rocky as it pulled from his throat.

A wave of heat rushed Dean and he felt it in his face. His heart took a somersault and he wasn’t sure it landed. “Hey,” he puffed, face splitting into a doofy smile. Cas’ eyes bounced around, combed deliberately over the swollen cheekbone and eggplant bruises setting up camp under Dean's left eye. 

He struggled a hand up, woozy at first, unsteady as he maneuvered beside the solid morphine drip chirping from the IV bag tree at the head of his bed. He touched Dean’s forehead, fingers cold, and blinked. Hesitated, then looked at his hand.

_He’s trying to heal me. God…_ “No, I’m okay,” Dean said softly.

The hospital band turned on his wrist. “Novak?” he asked. Something morbid filled his face where the hurt had settled.

“It wasn’t me. They pulled your ID.”

“I understand.”

“No, I wasn’t there to tell 'em--” Cas’ eyes flicked back up and his brow bowed. “I mean, I wasn’t not there because I didn’t want to be. It was cuz-- see, thing is,” Dean combed fingers nervously through his hair. “I mean, really it’s a good thing I wasn’t cuz, the doc said you crashed in the ambulance on the way in. Then again in the ER. You were gone seven minutes when they finally got you back. I woulda just… I couldn’t've-- That’s, uh, that's when Sam came and pulled me outta lock up, see? He left while you were in surgery, cuz the doc said you weren’t gonna… there was too much… but, look at you now, huh? You look good.” Dean bit his tongue.

“Why were you in lock--”

“Uh, doesn't ma-- So, you got a lung. There’s a drain they put in for the, uh--they put in for a--what’d they call it? I don’t know. Sammy could tell you.” He snapped his fingers, and couldn’t seem to stilt the word vomit. “Hemothorax!” It was too loud and Cas winced. “Sorry. But you know, don’t worry about that. You should be good now, surgery got you all patched up. Sam’s already back home fixing up a room for you to recover in. Or, he will when I give him a call. He’ll be happy as hell to hear you’re up. See and we’ll move the tv in it so you’ve got something to do while you’re--”

“Dean,” Cas touched his arm and Dean staggered quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He meant to suppress it, but it came out flat. Dripping wet and pissed.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Yeah?” His words curled, sat heavy in the cynicism he’d been choking back all day.

He was supposed to let it go. Fucking drop it. Cas had one foot the grave, and Dean was supposed to be grateful for the foot that was still out. That should’ve been enough. He’d meant it to be. He’d told it to himself, screamed it in the silence as he’d listened to that goddamn oxygen mask wheeze. Cas would wake up and Dean would swallow all the Lucifer shit and never bring it up again. He’d take Cas home and make him eggs and bacon. Never cross that line again. And they’d pretend like it didn’t happen. 

But he couldn’t. 

“You got a helluva way of turning a guy down. What was it? Were my lips too chappy? I gotta work on my technique? Too much head tilt? Not enough? Maybe next time you just stick with a good old fashioned _not interested,_ or _fuck off_ , huh?It’d hurt a lot less than what you did. Getting covered in your blood, Cas. Watching you die. Praying to an absent god to spare you just one more fucking time. That was, low.”

Cas looked away eyes tearing. He grabbed handfuls of blanket as he skirted the ugly drain tube peeking out from the edge of the bed.

_God, you’re a fucking asshole--_ Dean paced away. Covered his face, and threaded fingers behind his head. The split skin on his scalp screamed and he let it. “No,” he relented, quieter this time. “That ain’t fair. I shouldn’t’ve said it.”

“I couldn’t let Lucifer go. He’d hurt someone else. He was my responsibility and I failed. Again.” His tears caught the low, weeping table light and ached straight through Dean’s chest like a needle.

He pulled the chair up and sat gingerly down. “This ain’t about the devil, Cas--though that was stupid, and we’re gonna talk about it--this is about you. This is about how you’re always throwing yourself away. You’re not disposable, man. You ain’t a tool for the fight. Do you understand? You--you’re so much more than that. You’re so much more to me. Whatever that means to you. You’re important.”

Cas fumbled weak hands at the front of his blanket. “No, what I am, is cold.”

“Want another blanket? I can get--”

“I’m human, again. Useless. Hurt and broken. What else am I good for if not a tool?”

Dean shook his head. “We’re all broken. That’s why we need each other. It’s parts of a whole.”

“No, it’s not--I’m not what you think I am. I’m nothing. Lucifer was right. This isn’t my name.” He spun his hospital band and spread his fingers. “These aren’t my hands. My feelings. I’m wearing someone else’s face. I just stole it all. I parade it around, fake and insincere. I’m pretend. How could you want this? Why?”

Dean watched the heart monitor. The peak and fall of the little LED line. “Gimme your hand,” he said standing. Cas stumbled fists into the blankets so Dean took one, turned it over and whispered a finger down the center of his palm. 

Cas’ fingers curled with the tickle. “You feel that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s you, Cas.” He pointed to the monitor. “This is you. Look at me. Jimmy’s dead and gone. You’re not a fiery ball of dickish holy light crammed into a meat suit anymore. You’re real. This is real. And the things you feel here--” Dean leaned down and planted a delicate kiss into Cas’ temple, felt his fingers squeeze marks into the back of Dean’s arm. The monitor kicked and Dean stayed in his space. Ate up the energy their closeness caused. He tapped a soft finger at Cas’ chest. “And here," he whispered. "They’re yours. No one else's. It don’t matter if you’re not in original packaging. I’d know you anywhere,” he wiped a rogue tear from the bend of Cas’ cheek. “Cuz you’re the other part of my whole.”

“You love me even though--”

Dean shook his head, as he swiped away another slide of tears, fought back his own. “I love you _because_ ,” he said.

Cas grabbed at the front of Dean’s shirt and sobbed. The stupid finger monitor tangled in the cotton. He couldn’t pull his eyes from Dean’s mouth, like he had to read the words because there was no way in hell he was hearing them right. “Will you kiss me?” 

“Yeah, okay. But, just so you know, I don’t have any weapons on me this time, so you’re gonna have to ride the whole thing out.”


End file.
